


The Nightwalker Chronicles

by startraveller776



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Drama, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Mystery, Private Investigators, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: Emma Swan is an expert private investigator, but recently she's witnessed things that even she cannot explain. The only one willing to help her safely navigate the underbelly of the city in search of answers is the man who saved her life, a mysterious artist with secrets of his own.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28
Collections: CaptainSwan Supernatural Summer





	The Nightwalker Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is very loosely based on the 2007 television series "Blood Ties." You may have read the first part in the "If I Win Your Heart" collection, but by request, I've turned it into its own series of ficlets. (That and I have a bunch of prompts for this sitting in my inbox on Tumblr!) 
> 
> This isn't a true multi-chapter story, but a series of short stories that take place in this universe.
> 
> This first installment was written based on the prompt "Crime."
> 
>  **IMPORTANT:** I'm no longer in fandom, so I'm leaving this as a oneshot. Sorry!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187237537@N07/50310095833/in/dateposted-public/)

Emma brings her hand up and hesitates just shy of rapping her knuckles against the dark mahogany door in front of her. It was surprisingly easy to talk her way past the doorman of this upscale high-rise. She only had to say that she was here to see a “Mr. Jones,” and the man gave her a brief once over, lips quirking with a knowing smile, before waving her toward the elevator.

Her middle flutters with anticipation, though she knows this is probably a long shot. It’s been two weeks since the incident that she can’t reconcile with reality, and she’s been scouring the city for the only other witness to the event—the mystery man who yanked her from the tracks with inhuman strength seconds before the midnight train whipped by.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” Neal asked when he took her statement a half hour later. Of course the detective who picked up the call for a possible homicide had to have been her ex. “Because you know how you can get sometimes when you’ve had a little too much.”

She gave him the finger and walked away. She would do the investigation herself—despite the lack of evidence and the lack, even, of a body. She saw what she saw.

_The bone-chilling scream from someone in abject terror. She raced down the stairs to follow the horrific sound only to stop at the base by an impossible sight. A man, skin completely blanched, shrieking as his body was bent and twisted by a coal black shadow with searing red eyes. She charged it, only to be whipped violently to the tracks, stars filling her vision as her head banged against a steel railroad tie._

She pushes aside the memory that haunts her dreams, sucks in a deep breath, and knocks, hoping this won’t be another dead end.

Seconds lethargically tick by and then finally a deadbolt turns. The door swings open, revealing a man wearing nothing more than heather grey joggers. Emma involuntarily takes in his toned bare chest, dusted with dark hair, before she’s able to force her gaze to his face. She’s the best P.I. in the city, but her search didn’t turn up a single photo of Killian Jones. Not that they’d have been much help anyway. She was only able to capture a glimpse of her rescuer’s hooded profile in the pale flickering lights at the station.

Everything in the ridiculously thin file she has on this guy says that he’s a reclusive artist with practically no digital footprint. The image she’s conjured in her head doesn’t match reality, though. At all.

Killian is handsome, almost unnaturally so with onyx hair and stunning blue eyes. By the way he leans against the jamb, mouth splitting in an appreciative grin as his gaze wanders in a languid tour from her head to her boots and back again, she’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a problem in social settings.

“Hello, love,” he says in a baritone that’s a hairsbreadth shy of seductive. “You’re a day early, but I’m willing to overlook the error, particularly for a beautiful lass such as yourself.”

Emma frowns. He’s been expecting her? But there’s no recognition in his unwavering stare. She reminds herself that he might not even be the one she’s been hunting down, but then she sees it. His arm pressed against the door frame, flexing a well-defined bicep, ends in a stump. An image flashes of a glinting silver hook in place of a hand, and her stomach flips.

He follows her gaze, smile dipping briefly as he pushes off the jamb. “Shall we get started, then?” He backs away, giving her space to enter. When she doesn’t move, he adds. “No need to stand upon ceremony, love. Come in.” He strides into his apartment without a backward glance as though expecting her to obediently trail after him.

His arrogance puts her off, and her instinct is to head the other direction—right out of the building. But she needs answers. She needs to know she’s not crazy. Sucking a deep breath, she reaches into her pocket, fingers gripping a small canister of pepper spray as she crosses the threshold. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

This place is insanely big, easily five times the size of her one-bedroom apartment, and it looks staged for a feature article on eighteenth century inspired design in Architectural Digest. The antique furniture is in such pristine condition, it’d make an appraiser cry, though Emma couldn’t say the proper name for any single piece—except for the drafting table and stool in the corner of the great room. The entire exterior wall is floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city at night. Paintings hang from the other surfaces in ornate, gilded frames.

Her eyes are drawn to one of the smaller pieces, almost hidden between a pair of landscapes at twilight, and she steps forward to get a better look. The image is of a cloaked figure carrying a woman with long, dark hair. She’s dressed in a period dress, eyes closed, head lolling back, arm dangling limply. Despite the macabre theme, the piece seems _alive_.

“Since it appears you didn’t come in the usual attire of leggings and a sports bra, you can strip down to your knickers.”

Killian’s voice startles her, and it takes a beat before Emma catches what he said. She turns around to find him opening the doors to a gothic-looking breakfront. He’s put on a shirt, a black v-neck tee that hugs the well-defined muscles of his torso.

“We’ll start with a few gestures before moving onto longer poses.”

Strip down to her knickers? Poses? She stares at him, indignation burning in her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

He glances at her over his shoulder. “You are from the agency, yes?”

“Agency?” She scoffs at the implications. Does this guy actually pay for that kind of thing? “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not a—”

“Model?” He straightens, holding up a large sketchpad.

Heat rises to her face again for an entirely different reason, and she silently chastises herself for making assumptions. He’s a freaking _artist_. She knew that. “I’m not that either.”

His eyes narrow a fraction as he looks her over. “Apologies, love. But you can hardly blame me for the mistake.” He sets the sketchpad in the cabinet, closes the door, and takes a few steps in her direction. “Shall we try this again? Killian Jones at your service.” He gives her a flourishing bow. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss…”

“Emma Swan,” she fills in the blank. “Actually, we’ve met before.” It’s a stab in the dark; she’s still not absolutely certain that it was him who dragged her to safety.

He cocks his head, tongue grazing across his bottom lip. “Oh?”

She makes a noise of agreement, moving toward him. “Two weeks ago,” she says, “at Waterfront Station.”

He becomes inhumanly still, and though he still wears a smile, it’s turned plastic as his eyes bore into her. That’s all the confirmation she needs. Whatever plausible lie he’s trying to cook up won’t hold water with her. She will get the truth out of him.

“Aye, I remember now,” he says slowly. “Have you come to offer your undying gratitude?” He winks, rubs his thumb across his mouth in a roguish attempt to play at ignorance, but she sees through the act.

“Thank you but,” she says, fishing a business card from her pocket, “I think you know that’s not why I’m here.” She holds it out to him.

He wets his lips again, dropping his cavalier façade as he takes the rectangle of cardstock from her. He glances down at her information embossed on its surface—Emma Swan, Private Investigator—and then back up at her with a somber expression. “This isn’t a road you want to traverse, love.”

“I’m not your ‘love,’ and warnings like that only light a fire under me,” she says. “So, why don’t you save us both the trouble and tell me what the hell happened that night.”

He scrutinizes her with a narrowed gaze for several heartbeats before his features sag in resignation. “As the lady wishes.” He steps around her without another word, and she scrambles after him.

“Hey!” she protests. “Where are you going?”

“To get us a drink,” he replies with a glance over his shoulders. When she balks, he adds, “You’re asking me to introduce you to the creatures that live in the underbelly of the city, lass. Trust me, we’re both going to need one.”

“Creatures?” she asks with disbelief. “Like what? Vampires and ghouls? You’ve got to be kidding me. I want a rational explanation not a Bram Stoker novel.”

Killian pauses, breathing out a soft, raspy laugh as he turns to face her. “And what might your ‘rational explanation’ be for this?” His eyes turn inky black and he pulls back his lips to reveal a pair of sharp white canines elongating.

Ice sluices through her veins as she takes an involuntary step back. No. No, her mind has to be playing tricks on her. Or this is an incredibly vivid dream. Or—

“You can believe or not,” he says, his irises returning to a shining azure, “but it doesn’t make me any less real.” He moves toward her, the corners of his mouth curving up in a sardonic grin. “Still want to know what goes bump in the night?”

Her heartbeat is thick and erratic to her ears. She knows she should make a dash for the door, run without looking back. And yet…

And yet, her gut tells her that she’s not in any danger—not here. He saved her life when she could have been easy prey for him. And he has the answers she needs. How does that saying go? Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

She licks her dry lips, squares her shoulders. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”

His smile grows wider. “I like a tough lass.”


End file.
